The Real Time Travel Recovery Was the Friends We Made Along the Way
by TheMightiestPen2
Summary: Steve is alone in a new world. The first thing he wants to do is find out what happened to the old one. So, he sets out to discover exactly what happened to the Howling Commandos, and to see how he can fit in without them. Set right after the end of the first Avengers movie.


**Note**: This was inspired by the deleted scene from the first Avengers movie, where Steve is looking sadly at files of the Howling Commandos. So it's technically canon compliant, I guess, but I imagine that scene to be happening at the end of the movie instead. I do add quite a lot and create a very specific vision of how I see the post-war life of the Howling Commandos went. I basically wanted to explore Steve's journey of coming to accept his new life and his new friends. I hope you enjoy it.

Maybe the Real Time Travel Recovery Was the Friends We Made Along the Way

Later (after the battle and the chaos and the _noise _and the go-go-go-go), Steve decides to look them up.

He's standing in the ruins of New York—simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar, overwhelmingly so—shoveling through debris, trying to find survivors, when he's struck by the sudden panic of forgetting. _How did I forget them how did I forget them how did I_

"Cap?" And there's Hawkeye, who he barely knows, worriedly tapping his shoulder. "You alright?"

God knows he's been putting this off—with good reason, he has a city to help rebuild—but he owes it to them. He owes it to them to find out what happened, what they did, where they were, how they've been.

Steve shakes his head, clears it, refocuses. "Yeah."

If they're still alive.

* * *

Right after Loki is apprehended, and with hands that only tremble a little, Steve approaches Maria Hill and asks her for the files on the Howling Commandos.

Her stare seems to cut through him. "Are you sure?"

He gives a short nod.

"Okay, then."

Hill passes him files—_paper _copies, not whatever contraptions they've invented in this future world—that indicate that she's had them on hand. "Here you go. You can keep them."

Steve clutches the files to his chest and doesn't let go until he reaches Stark Tower.

* * *

"Well," Stark (_Tony_) says, clapping his hands together, stretching them above his head. "I guess this is it."

Steve nods shortly. Everyone is here—_everyone_, including Thor—scattered in an empty, undamaged section of the tower. The serious stuff is out of the way now, and Steve will never know how Thor managed to convince Nick Fury to give up Loki to Asgard, or how he's arranged tomorrow's drop. He's a little envious of his ability to do it, though.

Now, Tony has proposed that they all keep in touch, and continue this team that they've built. _It makes sense_. He'd argued. _Plus, who would say no to working with a mind as overwhelmingly genius as mine_?

Steve thinks of the file, stored carefully on his small bedside table in his small temporary bedroom. He looks around at the ragtag team, who are staring at him expectantly.

He sighs. "Yes."

"Excellent!" Sta—Tony says, turning back to everyone. "Didn't I say…?"

"Okay, Tony." Natasha rolls her eyes. She manages to make it look affectionate. "You predicted that _Captain America_ was going to politely accept to keep in touch. Well done."

Steve sucks in a deep breath at _Captain America_, suddenly furious. "You didn't know that." He snaps. "How would you know what I would say to that?"

An awkward silence fills the room. Bruce Banner, who had been inching closer into the conversation, seems to withdraw yet again.

"Okay." Natasha's eyes betray nothing. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Steve thinks this admission sounds like a big deal. He feels irritated by the guilt that dredges up.

* * *

**Morita**

The instant Steve climbs on the motorcycle and says his farewells, he speeds on quickly to the first location.

It's a high school in Queens. Forest Hill. The ride there is torturous. Steve can barely look at the rows of streets, cars, and modern suburbia that he rides past. He cannot recognize streets that he frequented in his youth, that he practically lived in, that he and Bucky roamed for years and he knew like the back of his hand.

Those same streets look like they've been replaced with the set of _Metropolis_. Steve cannot imagine anything more horrific, more terrifying. After a while, he stops even trying to find any familiarity.

When Steve reaches his destination, he finds his first enemy: parking. Figuring out fancy automated parking meters is not in his plans for the day and makes him fifteen minutes late in his self-imposed schedule. This sours his mood further, which he was desperately hoping wouldn't happen.

Walking into the building, Steve is again struck by how different the world is. The colorful posters, harsh lighting, and (are those _televisions_?) technological advancements divorce the space completely as a school. To him, this is a book cover for a science fiction novel. It is not his reality.

Light-headed, Steve makes his way to the reception desk. "Excuse me," He says, alerting the receptionist. "May I speak with Principal Morita?"

The receptionist fixes her glasses. "And this is concerning….?"

Steve's mind goes blank. "Could you please tell him that Steve Rogers wants to speak with him?"

He tenses, but the receptionist doesn't seem to recognize him. She squints at him, apparently suspicious, and calls the principal. She shoos him in a few minutes later.

When Steve walks into the office, he thinks _Well, I've lost it_.

Sitting at the desk, and snapping to attention instantly as he walks in, is Jim Morita. It has to be. The man looks exactly like him. The unexpected familiarity stops him short, makes him draw in a quick breath.

Before he can speak, Morita (Jim?) chokes out "Captain Rogers."

Steve's heart sinks. The voice is just slightly different: the accent more modern, the pitch faintly elevated. He can see slight facial differences too, now: eye color, nose shape, hair length. It's like looking at a slightly edited version of the Jim he knows.

It's actually more disconcerting this way.

Steve snaps himself back into the moment and approaches the man, extending a hand that shakes only slightly. "Principal Morita."

The man meets him halfway. "Kenneth," He corrects, glancing sideways at his wall. "I think you knew my grandfather, Jim?"

Steve follows his eyes. He sees an old photograph of Jim, displayed prominently on the office wall. He recognizes the photo, he was there when it was taken only three weeks ago.

Well, when he says three weeks…plus or minus seventy years, now.

He tears his eyes away from Morita so he can speak to one in front of him. "Yeah, I know him," He manages to choke out. "I'm actually here to…speak about him, I suppose. I don't know if you've heard but I've…just gotten back and I wanted to check in on everyone. And…how life went for them, I guess. If that's alright with you."

The truth is, Steve hasn't prepared anything, doesn't really know how to get his request across. This is a total stranger standing across from him, despite how familiar-but-unfamiliar he looks. He doesn't know how to ask him to reassure him that his friends had good lives, that they lived, that they _made it_ no matter who they lost during the war.

Principal Morita seems to get it. Maybe. In any case, he seems to understand, at some level, what Steve is asking for.

He gestures at Steve to sit down, then joins him, looking at him thoughtfully across his large desk. "My grandfather talked about you a lot," He said. "And the war, generally. He missed the group, kept in touch with who he could. We lost him recently, but…" He cleared his throat. "I think he had a good life."

Steve nods. Soon after, he makes a polite excuse, thanks Principal Morita (who seems about to try to stop him, but lets him continue), and leaves.

Even though he's gotten exactly what he's asked for, Steve still has a pit in his stomach as he exits the building. It might be because he can't separate this Morita's face from the one that he knew, but he isn't sure.

* * *

**Jones**

His next visit slots in nicely with the required check-in he needs to complete at S.H.I.E.L.D. In a way, it's comforting to know that he can always come back here to find the people he's looking for.

"Captain Rogers," Fury greets him at the entrance to HQ, in the giant helicarrier. He's not expecting that. "What can we do for you today?"

"Well, I'm here for my mandatory check-in, sir." Steve replies wryly.

Fury puts his hands on his hips. "And you showed up for it?"

"…yes?"

"Well goddamn." He shakes his head. "Nice to know one of you Avengers is able to stick to a request. And a schedule."

Steve shifts slightly. "Where do I do this?"

Fury shoos him away. "Ask for Agent Romanov. She'll take care of it for you."

Oh.

Steve hasn't spoken to Natasha, or any of the team, really, since he drove away on his motorbike a week ago. He'd thought…well. It wouldn't have made sense that they all would've stuck around at Stark Tower, they hadn't been put on pause. He had moved on to unfinished business, and it makes sense that they would too, no matter what was promised or agreed on.

He meets Natasha in the rec room. She addresses him formally ("Captain Rogers, hello") and makes him recount what he's been doing, who he's been seeing, what he's planning on doing with his time, how well he's adjusting. It feels like a test, and Steve doesn't know if that's deliberate.

Then, she asks if he has any questions.

"No, I…" He pauses. "Actually, yeah. Can I speak to one of the agents around here?"

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "Who do you have in mind?"

"Antoine Triplett." Steve mutters. He wonders how he's going to explain this.

It turns out, he doesn't have to. "Ah," Natasha nods at him, and something in her gaze softens. Steve hadn't even noticed how tense she had been prior to that. "Of course. He's on site now, I could get him for you if you want?"

"Please." Steve straightens, heart hammering in his chest.

Before she can leave, Steve calls out "Natasha."

She turns around. He gives her a smile, hopes it looks as grateful as he feels. "Thank you."

She smiles back. It makes her look different. "You're welcome."

* * *

Antoine Triplett is, in a phrase, enduringly joyful.

When he walks in to see Steve waiting for him at a table in the empty rec room, he just about implodes. "Captain Rogers?" He exclaims, about to rush over but seemingly catches himself. He snaps off a salute instead, which Steve returns.

"It's an honor to meet you, sir," Triplett says, getting closer and pumping Steve's hand enthusiastically. "What can I do for you?"

This is playing out familiarly. Steve thinks he can work with this.

"Well, I'm sure you know that I knew your grandfather…"

"Grandpa Gabe?" Triplett interrupts. "Of course! He's a legend in our family. We're so proud of him and everything he's done." He grins, puffs his chest up. "You know, he's the reason I joined S.H.I.E.L.D. That's where him and the others went, well, you know. After. They're legends here, too."

Steve blinks. He must have missed that in the files. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah!" Triplett laughs. "I'm, like, S.H.I.E.L.D. legacy. There's a few of us here, so it's definitely a distinction. We all know each other."

"I'm sure you take after your grandfather, then," Steve says, leaning forward. "You a language expert? Long-range weaponry?"

Triplett shakes his head. "Nah," He says. "Close range fighter. I tried Spanish in high school, but I wasn't great. Grandpa Jones tried to turn me to French but I just wasn't interested."

Steve blinks. "Oh."

"Yeah, but he was pumped when I joined. Gave me all of his old stuff and everything. I carry some of that stuff around on missions. You never know when old school might come in handy."

Steve leans back, considers. "You're a lot like him."

"Am I?" Triplett's eyes widen. "Man, I wish I'd known him back then. We would've understood each other pretty well, I think."

Gabe was studious. Quiet. Serious. Kind, but introverted. Maybe that was the war, though. Maybe in peacetime, Gabe was like the kid sitting in front of him. Maybe he can get a chance to know peacetime Gabe, who he had never met.

Steve smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "I think you would have."

* * *

**Dugan**

Steve catches a train to Boston.

It's not too different, actually. He calls S.H.I.E.L.D. to ask how to do it, and they hand him off to Hawkeye. Once Hawkeye buys him the ticket online and talks him through how to print it (Steve has seen the best of what technology has to offer, and printing is still what blows him away the most), he realizes that the general process hasn't changed in seventy years.

"That's right, Cap," Hawkeye ("Call me Clint, Hawkeye was my dad") says reassuringly. "You could fast forward a hundred years and public transport would never change. It's always reliably terrible."

Steve huffs, amused. "Good to see humans stay consistent."

Clint laughs, tells him to call if he has any other transport needs. "I need to go, I've been told there are some vents I have to crawl around in."

Clint is kind of strange.

* * *

Boston is…difficult.

He'd never been, in his own time. He doesn't even have a skeleton of an image to superimpose over this one, to see what has changed or what has stayed the same. That chance has been taken away from him, permanently. He's never going to know _his _Boston.

This is what he thinks of as he walks through the streets, trying to wrangle his enormous map and not to bump into anything. He's having trouble reading it (which is stupid, because the concept of maps hasn't changed that much) and he just can't reconcile his surroundings with the normal-looking map in front of him. The future doesn't belong on maps. It's too damn alien to be written down.

After a while, Steve gives up. He sits right down on the sidewalk, closes his eyes, and fists a hand in his hair. _Damn it._ _Why can't I do this why can't I do this why_…

Something gives in his other hand. His eyes snap open and he looks down to see that he's clutched the map so tight that he's ripped it.

"Damn it!" Steve yells, out loud this time.

"Can I help you?"

He looks up to see a young woman, the only person who has stopped for him in the busy street he's walking in. Other people continue on their way, and some are staring at him, at this stranger who came from a different time and is disturbing their daily routine.

Steve takes a couple of deep breaths. "Yeah. Sorry. Do you know where I could find River Street, please?"

The woman gives him directions. He's actually not too far off, but that makes him embarrassed that he lost it so close to his destination. He feels like an idiot.

By the time Steve arrives at the small house at the end of the block, he is late and irritated. He can't even match the speed of this future correctly.

He glances at the mailbox. The word "Dugan" is emblazoned upon it in large, bold letters.

Do people still use mailboxes here? How old-fashioned of them. Steve wonders if this is a point of ridicule, if people are mocked for resorting to physical things instead of digital ones. He wouldn't be surprised, honestly.

He walks up the driveway and knocks on the door. His enhanced hearing catches scuffling sounds inside the house, voices, and then footsteps. The door swings open, and he is greeted face-to-face with a man who looks to be in his late sixties or early seventies. He squints at Steve. "What do you want?"

The man doesn't seem very happy to see him. "Sorry," Steve mutters. "Would this be Damian Dugan's house, by any chance?"

The man raises an eyebrow. "You can read, can't you? It's on the mailbox."

"Y..yeah, but…"

"I'm Damian. What are you here for, Captain Rogers?"

Steve blinks, wrong-footed. He doesn't know how many more mess-ups he can take today. "You know who I am?"

"Kind of hard to miss, nowadays." The man leans on the doorframe but he does not invite Steve in. "What can I do for you?"

"I just…I wanted to know if you had the time to talk about Dum—your father. He was a good friend of mine, and I just wanted—"

"No," The man interrupts him. "See, I wasn't very close to my father and don't really feel like talking about him. He came back from the war but it wasn't enough for him. He stayed in that life and didn't much care who he left behind."

Steve feels a prickle of anger. "He was a hero, you know."

"Oh, yeah. I'm aware." The man snorts. "You wanna talk about his heroism? Call up my sister, or my nephew in the SEC. They'll go on about him all day. I, however, am not interested. Have a nice day, now."

The door slams in his face, and Steve is left alone on the doorstep, breathing hard. He whirls around and walks back down the driveway. As he passes the mailbox, he has a sudden and strong urge to destroy it, to beat it down so the man in the house has no claim to that name anymore. He breathes deep, the urge passes, and he begins to retrace his steps. He tosses the map in the closest trash can he can find.

* * *

**Falsworth**

"I have to go to London."

Steve informs Fury of this three days after his return from Boston. He's feeling wired, amped up. He'd been careful, treading lightly, but now he just wants to barrel through and get all of this over with.

He'd looked up the sister and the nephew in the SEC when he came back. He'd sat there, in his room, pouring back over the files, and saw that they were healthy and well. That would have to suffice. _I'm sorry, Dugan. I'm sorry_.

Fury doesn't question it. "Okay. I can have a S.H.I.E.L.D. pilot escort you if you like." He taps at his ear (does he have a radio in there?) and walks off to have a rapid-fire conversation. He returns looking satisfied. "There you go. You won't have to deal with airplane food now."

He smirks. Steve thinks he's missed something. He's sick of that.

"Clint?" Steve asks, trying to push away his irritation.

"Clint is occupied." Fury says, pointing him towards a dark hallway. "Don't worry, his replacement is excellent."

He's directed to an office in the back. A woman sits there stiffly, arms crossed, and looks at him as he enters. She doesn't say a word.

Steve clears his throat. "Hello, Agent…?"

"May." The woman says. She doesn't offer a first name. Or was it a last one?

Agent May doesn't elaborate further. Steve fidgets a little, examining the room as if to find an indication of what to do. He doesn't find any.

"So," He begins. "Are you going to be helping me with…?"

"Going to London?" Agent May interrupted him. "Yes. I'm just waiting on you."

"Oh." Steve blinks. "Right now? Yeah, let me just get my…yeah. I'll be back in about 20."

With that, he turns and flees to his tiny apartment to pack his tiny suitcase.

He's back in 20, and they're out and up in the air in 25. Steve, sitting in the passenger seat of the small jet, stares wide-eyed into the distance. He can't help but be amazed again by how far flight technology had come, even if the views are different now.

Plus, the amazement helps to get rid of that icy feeling in his stomach that he gets from being in a plane cockpit. So, you know. Whatever helps.

An hour and a half into the flight, the amazement has worn off and the iciness has increased. Steve wants to fidget, to wrap his jacket more tightly around himself, but he can't. It's like he's been frozen solid. He tries to take deep breaths, like his S.H.I.E.L.D. issued therapist said, but it doesn't seem to be working.

"Where are you heading to?"

And he's able to move again. Shakily, he turns towards Agent May, who is looking ahead blankly, like she hasn't said anything at all.

He swallows. "Central London," He says hoarsely. "I'm trying to find the granddaughter of an old friend of mine. Montgomery Falsworth."

"Is that the friend or the granddaughter?" Steve thinks that's a joke, even if her mouth hasn't twitched at all.

Steve manages a smile for her. "The friend. His granddaughter is called Jacqueline."

Agent May nods. Silence descends once more, but it isn't so bad. Steve settles back into his seat and takes off his jacket.

* * *

As it turns out, Jacqueline Falsworth is easy to find.

Her name is plastered outside of the law offices in which she operates, so Steve doesn't even have to try that hard to find it. It's a big relief after the fiasco that was Boston.

London is horribly, horribly crowded. New York was, too, so he'd expected it. He breathes deep and barrels forward into the small office building, heading to the receptionist's desk straight away.

"Hello," He greets the man at the desk politely. "May I speak to Ms. Jacqueline Fals—"

"Captain Rogers!" He's interrupted by a high-pitched lilt and turns to see a woman in her thirties, dressed in a suit, pacing towards him quickly. "I'm Jaqueline, were you looking for me?"

She holds out a hand. Steve shakes it, flustered.

"Yes, I was going to…"

"I'm so sorry to rush you, Captain, but I've got a meeting in about twenty minutes. Are you in London for long, can we set up a time to speak later?"

Well. They could, technically. But Steve doesn't want to, he needs to get his closure now, even if for a little bit. He can't wait, can't anticipate. "Sorry," He tells her sincerely. "I won't be able to. I won't take long."

She doesn't seem fazed. Her confidence, suddenly, confusingly, reminds him of Thor. "Right, then, follow me!"

She leads him to an impressive, opulent office that's all windows and glass doors. It makes Steve feel uncomfortable and exposed.

"Sit down," She says, gesturing downward, and doing so herself on a high-backed chair. She crosses her legs, leans forward. "You want to know about my grandfather, right?"

He nods. "Yes, I saw in his file that he was still with us, and I couldn't find him at the New York address provided and I wondered if…"

"Oh," Ms. Falsworth said, sounding solemn. She reaches out and takes his hand. He's shocked enough to let her. "I'm sorry, Steve. You must have had older records. My grandfather died two months ago."

Steve sucks in a breath. Two months. Right before he'd been extracted from the ice. _Two goddamn months_.

_I really am the only one left, now_.

He lets the breath out, trying to keep his head. "I'm sorry," He tells her, "I didn't mean to…"

"It's alright," She lets go of his hand and sits back in her chair. "Grandad always had a great sense of humor. He would've found the timing funny, and I think you know that."

Steve huffs out a laugh. "You're right," He says, staring down at the desk, scared of making eye contact until he can be certain that his tears can't be seen. "His humor is…was just too much. He even shocked us sometimes, and I have to tell you it took a lot to do that."

Ms. Falsworth laughs too "I believe that," She says fondly. "He was the same with us. So polite, until you got to know him. You have no idea how many friends he went through because of it."

Steve smiles. It feels like the real deal. "Did he still smoke like a chimney?"

"To the very end." Ms. Falsworth checks her watch. She looks up apologetically.

Steve gets up. "Thank you for speaking to me."

"It was nothing." They shake hands again and she walks him to the elevator.

"I'm sorry we didn't get to speak much," She tells him, just as he's about to get in. "But we will soon. I promise."

That doesn't make sense, but the elevator doors close before Steve can get an explanation.

* * *

**Carter**

"Your files had the wrong information."

Agent May looks up from her book. "Excuse me?"

"Your files." Steve paces around the plane's large interior. He distantly hopes he didn't break anything as he slammed in. "The S.H.I.E.L.D files. On Falsworth. He's dead."

Agent May raises an eyebrow. "I thought you were looking for his granddaughter?"

Steve stops in his tracks. He breathes in deeply. _Don't shout at a woman_. "I was _looking _for his granddaughter because I couldn't find Falsworth. He _wasn't_ in the care facility in his file. Because he's _dead_. And that wasn't in the file."

Agent May says nothing. Steve huffs in disbelief and is about to leave, sick of her presence, before he hears, quietly, "I'm sorry."

He stills, his back to Agent May. "Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry." He hears her close her book, and a small thump as she puts it on the table. "That shouldn't have happened. I'm assuming you were given hard copies that were just slightly outdated, and if your friend died recently there may not have been time to update them. But that's on us, and we'll take the blame for it."

Steve nods. "Thank you." He says shortly, turning around and sinking into the closest chair.

"Next time, you ask us." Agent May says. "You don't have to fly all the way over here. Ask us, and we'll double check for you if someone isn't where they're supposed to be. We can do that immediately nowadays, you know."

Yeah. He's aware of that.

"I will." He looks at her now, and she doesn't flinch from the eye contact. "But that's okay, because I came here for more than one purpose anyway."

"Okay," Agent May rests her hands on her elbow and leans onto the table. "Where to now?"

Steve shrugs. "Back to London." He says, reaching into the duffel he has hauled with him. Carefully, he extracts several pages from it and hands them to her after a slight hesitation.

"It says here that Agent Carter is in a care facility around here. Would you mind double checking the accuracy for me?"

"Of course." Agent May takes the files, also handling it carefully, smoothing it onto the surface of the table. She pulls out a small…smartphone?…and begins tapping it rapidly.

"Thank you, Agent May." He tells her.

"Melinda." She mutters softly. Steve smiles, but he doesn't think she notices.

* * *

Melinda draws the route in for him on the map. He's grateful for that. A familiar, friendly, presence on it might distract him from the newness of it all, the one that hit him so hard when he was in Boston.

When she's done, she gives him verbal directions as well. Before he heads out, he pauses, looks at her.

"Did you know him?"

It's completely out of left field. Steve doesn't know he's going to ask it before he does. Maybe it's unclear, or insensitive, but he can't think. He suddenly needs to know, and badly.

Melinda's mouth twitches. "Yes." She tells him. "He admired you very much."

He nods, thinks of the cards. "I'm sorry." He tells her, and then steps out before she can reply.

He thinks it might be the most cowardly thing he's ever done.

* * *

For the first time, Steve isn't concerned with his surroundings. The newness of the city, the unfamiliarity, the otherworldliness…it doesn't bother him. He doesn't notice it in the least.

He's so overcome by fear that he doesn't feel time passing. All he knows is he exited the plane and has now found himself in front of the care facility that was carefully charted for him on the map that Melinda had offered.

Steve takes a shaky breath and breezes in. He finds himself in a small, cozy room full of large sofas and cushiony chairs.

He is about to approach the front desk—he's sick of talking to people at desks—when he feels something hit his legs at top speed. He steps back—in surprise, he's almost impossible to bowl over now—and sees that a small child has run into him.

"Hi." He kneels down so he can be eye-to-eye with the kid. "Are you okay?"

The kid—a boy—nods, wide-eyed.

"Jason!" He hears a voice in the distance, sharp and irritated. He turns to the voice, and the kid copies his movements.

"I'm sorry, sir, did Jason…?"

The woman approaches them rapidly, then freezes when she sees him. Steve can see her mouth fall open, and her lips start to shake slightly.

Steve, unnerved, steps back, "I'm sorry, I'll…"

"Steve Rogers?"

He pauses. Nods. "Yeah. Yeah, that's me."

"Oh. Oh my word. Are you…are you here to see Peggy Carter?"

"I…"

"Of course, you must be." The woman shakes her head, and walks towards him, stretching out her hand. "I'm Angie. I'm her daughter."

Steve thinks he must have shaken her hand. He doesn't remember, though.

The woman—Angie—lets go, and motions the boy over towards her. "This is Jason." She says. "He's my grandson. You're just about to catch the rest of the family, I'm afraid."

"The rest…?"

Before Steve can finish his question, a large group of people spill out of the elevator, talking and laughing and joking together. The noise intrudes the previously calm space and quickly overwhelms him.

They spot him and Angie instantly, and an excited buzz hangs over their conversation. They make their way over, a group of maybe ten or eleven people, and huddle around them.

"Is that…"

"My _god_…"

"Captain America!"

"He looks just like Mum says, oh my god…"

"Captain Rogers, we're so pleased to…"

"Are you here to visit Granny?"

"_Excuse me_!" Angie says sharply. The group silences, looks at her. "Can't you see you're overwhelming the poor man? Step back. Let me make introductions."

Steve hears the names, nods at the people bring introduced, but can't quite remember any of them. All he can see is, unnervingly, bits and pieces of Peggy distributed around the crowd. There's her nose, her cheekbones, her eyes, her stance, her ears, staring at him from different bodies and faces and he experiences a vertigo so intense that he forgets where he is.

He hears his name, which snaps him out of it, but he sees a young man wave in response and wants to fall over instead.

"Yes," Angie mutters, embarrassed. "My brother, Roger," A short, stocky man waves from the far end of the crowd. "named his son after you. Bit awkward, that."

There's a round of laughter around the room. Steve's lips pull up into a weak smile.

"She talks about you all the time!" Roger defends himself, crossing his arms. His expression is all Peggy in that moment. "Trust me, she was very happy about it."

"Would you like to go see her now?" Angie asks Steve. He nods. She's very kind. That's her piece of Peggy, he thinks. "Go right ahead, then. Room 310. I'll make the arrangements, put you on the approved visitor's list. You can come in whenever you like."

He nods. "Thank you." He tells her, clearing his throat. He looks out over the rest of the crowd. "It was nice to meet you all." He manages.

There's a chorus of agreement, and he suddenly feels Angie slip a card into his hands. "That's if you want to get in contact," She explains. "I can also direct you to family in the States as well. You're always welcome with any of us."

Steve swallows. He nods, too overwhelmed for words, at the implications and the what-ifs that he can't quite comprehend them. "Thank you." He says again.

He waves, acknowledging their goodbyes, and walks towards the elevators. He tries to calm down. The situation he's walking into is not going to be less difficult, or less emotional. He has to keep it together.

As Steve steps out of the elevator and heads to her room, he realizes that he hasn't felt like an alien, out of place, unwelcome, for the entire time he's been in the building. He doesn't ponder it.

* * *

**Dernier**

Steve runs away the next day.

He feels ridiculous sneaking out of a plane, which is spacious and has rooms but is still small enough to make sneaking almost impossible. Luckily for him, Melinda either isn't anticipating it or doesn't move to stop it, and he gets away scot free.

He can't explain it. He just needs to be away. For the first time since he returned, he wants unfamiliarity, craves it. Yesterday's visit was too much of a kick in the chest for anything else.

He can read maps again. So, he makes his way over to the train station, utilizes all the knowledge that Clint has given him, and purchases a ticket to France. It goes off without a hitch.

His French is passable, and he ignores Paris and makes his way to Marseille. He finds his way to a small bed-and-breakfast in a charming and quiet part of town, and walks in.

It's a cozy, intimate interior. It's summer, so there's no fire in the fireplace, but it has the feel of comfortable warmth anyway. Above the fireplace is a large portrait of an old soldier, covered in medals and staring into the distance. He's a little older, but Steve recognizes Jacques Dernier instantly.

"Est-ce que je peux vous aider?" _May I help you?_

Steve turns around, notices the young man eyeing him from the small bar.

"Oui," Steve replies, then switches to English. "I'm looking for a place to stay for the night. Do you have a free room?"

"Oh, yes," The man replies, in confident English. "Let me arrange that for you. Cash or card?"

Steve hands over a card he received from S.H.I.E.L.D. He's relieved when it works.

"Can you tell me the history of this place?" Steve asks, trying to look casual. "I'm interested in family-run places, they feel more authentic to me."

"Of course!" The man says. He gestures at the portrait. "That is my grandfather. He defended us during the Second World War, brought us respect and honor. Fought with the Howling Commandoes, you know. The only French member!"

The man beams proudly. "He retired very late, opened this place, and ran it until he died. My mother has taken over operations now, she's talking about opening a branch in America in his honor. He loved this place."

Steve nods. "Thank you." He says. He takes the key offered to him and makes his way to the room as directed.

He sits there for a while, just staring into the distance, at the dream that Jacques built for himself.

_Good for you, Jacques_. He thinks as hard as he can, hoping that he can be heard. _Good for you_.

* * *

It's easy to make his way back the next morning. He retraces his steps, finding familiarity that way—which is more comforting than he cares to admit—and finds himself in front of the plane in London right before the sun begins to set.

He walks in, and is greeted by a very stone-faced, very pissed-off, Melinda May. She is sitting near the small table in the back of the plane, arms crossed. Her legs are propped on the table in a gesture of nonchalance, but he knows it's fake.

"You could have told me you were going, you know." She says, without inflection.

"Yeah." Steve says, rubbing his forehead. He's exhausted. "I know."

"Do you?" She swings her legs down to the floor, stands up. "You know I'm responsible for you here, right? That it's on me if you get lost, or in danger?"

"I'm a grown man," Steve says, ignoring the guilt. "I can take care of myself."

Melinda snorts. "You're out of your time." She says. "You're hurting. You aren't adjusted. You need help, for the time being."

"I'm _fine_." Steve insists. "I'm here. I managed."

"We know." Melinda stares at him, flinty-eyed. "That's why I didn't come after you. Your credit card got pinged, so I knew you bought the ticket and made it over okay. But you should have told me. Even if you wanted to go alone, you should have told me."

"I _know_." Steve says again, irritably, closing his eyes. He doesn't know why he's acting like this. She's right. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

For some reason, she pushes. "Why are you angry?" She goads. He's really pissed her off. "Why are you holding it back? Taking a cue from Dr. Banner?"

Steve's eyes snap open. Suddenly, he's furious. "_Don't_." He seethes. "Don't talk about him like that. Don't."

There's a short silence. Steve collects himself, calms himself down.

"I'm sorry," He says again, strained. "I didn't mean to get you in trouble. I didn't think. But I'm fine. And I'm done here. We can leave whenever you're ready."

Melinda stares him down a few seconds more. Finally, she gives a short nod and breezes past him to the cockpit. He sees her pause before going in, but nothing comes of it.

He takes that as forgiveness.

* * *

**Barnes**

Steve's stateside. New York. More specifically, a New York cemetery.

It's quiet here. It's an unseasonably cold day. The wind is blowing, making the trees rustle and leaves are being scattered across the rows of gray headstones and brown soil. It gives them color.

Steve is standing in front of a grave. He knows there's no body in it. The gravestone just has a name, JAMES BUCHANNEN BARNES, a life and death date, and an inscription.

He can only come here. Bucky has no family. There is nobody left alive who can talk to him, whom he can go to for reminiscing or comfort. Nobody he can help in Bucky's name. In the end, he is all that Bucky had left.

Steve hates the parallel, the inversion. He never asked for it.

He sits down in the dirt and faces the gravestone, pulling a bottle from his jacket. He lifts it up to the gravestone and drinks the whole thing, even though he can't feel it and it doesn't affect him. It just seems like the right thing to do.

After the bottle is drained, he rises, places it back into his jacket and mutters his goodbyes.

He would stay here forever if he could. But.

He has one more visit to make. One more friend to see. And then, Steve can decide what to do next.

* * *

**Stark**

It just so happens that Howard Stark is buried in the same cemetery that houses Bucky Barnes' headstone. Steve doesn't know if that's purposeful. All he knows is that he's able to visit two friends in the same trip, and he's going to take advantage of it.

It's almost comforting, being in New York. He doesn't realize how familiar, how American everything still is until he went to Europe. It may be the future, here, but it's still New York City. Even time can't kill that.

He follows the path to Howard's plot, and as he draws nearer, he notices that he's not alone. A large group has congregated in front of a gravestone, and as Steve draws nearer, he realizes it's next to the one he's hoping to get to. He's going to have to squeeze past the group to get there.

He inches closer, hoping that they somehow decide to leave before he gets there, but that doesn't happen. They're talking, and he begins to hear their voices drift over him.

"…where _is _she?"

"She's not gonna make it, but she sends her love and wishes she could be here."

"Why?"

"First day at S.H.I.E.L.D. She's so excited, she…"

That startles Steve so much he squeaks out an "excuse me," before he arrives there. As one, the group clustered around the grave turn to look at him.

Steve stops in his tracks. He holds his breath.

"Cap?" And there's Tony. Tony Stark. He backs away, moving towards him, and Steve can see the grave that they had been clustered around. MARIA STARK.

"What are you doing here?" Tony sounds confused. How? It's Steve that should be confused.

The group is full of people he knows. There's Agent Triplett, and Principal Mortia, and Jaqueline Falsworth with a man who looks exactly like her, and someone who looks a hell of a lot like the _nephew-in-the-SEC_, and older woman who whispers _merde_, and…

Steve can't hold it in anymore. He lets out a long, drawn, gasp. They all seem to startle simultaneously, and Steve feels…he feels…

There they are. Morita. Jones. Dugan. Falsworth. Dernier. _Stark_.

And Rogers.

Here they are. All in one place. All together.

He's seen similar sights before, every day. It's been repeated here, in this unfamiliar world, in the most unexpected way. Steve wasn't anticipating this. He wasn't anticipating seeing the familiar again, not like this.

He feels someone at his elbow. "Steve?" And there's Tony, and the spell breaks. "I can take this one." He hears, somewhat distantly, and he is led over to a large tree several rows behind.

"You alright, Cap?"

Steve nods. He feels like he's been whacked in the head, like he's been beaten on one too many times by his childhood bullies. "I'm…what…"

"Breathe." Tony says, calmly. "Yeah. I'm sure that was weird for you to see. Um. It's my mom's birthday today, and, well…" Tony takes a breath himself. "All of us here…we've known each other a long time. You know. Through our families? And we…tend to show up for each other once in a while. You know. When birthdays and stuff come up. Pepper always puts it on my calendar." He lets out a short laugh. "Especially for my mom. They all loved her."

Steve says nothing. Tony must take it as a sign to continue.

"I know you've been trying to see them recently, and, get answers, I guess? They, um, they put it on the groupchat. I'm sorry we didn't warn you, I just…I didn't expect you to come here today. The group of us who live in the States, we don't see each other all that often so we didn't think we'd run into you without warning. Sorry about that."

Steve ignores the words he doesn't know and focuses on the ones that he does. "You all know each other?" He confirms hoarsely.

Tony nods. "Not too well. Some of us better than others, especially because some of them live overseas, but…yeah."

"They kept in touch," Steve breathes. "so you could all meet?"

"I…I guess," Tony says. "I mean, I don't know why because dad's a dickwad, but…yeah."

Steve nods. "Okay." He says. He glances back at the group, who has turned to give them privacy.

"Wanna join us?" Tony asks him. "We're almost done, and then we can go back to the Tower." He pauses. "If you want. I mean, you know, I have a really awesome stash of drinks that's perfect for occasions like this, if that helps."

Steve pauses. He thinks of the group at the graveyard, of the familiarity there, the comfort, the proof that everything has gone well and the way he had hoped it would.

He also thinks of the group in the Tower. Of the familiarity of that, new, but reassuring, and how they've been a constant that he never quite recognized, and maybe still hasn't.

"Sure." He says, dry-mouthed. "I'm done with what I wanted to do, anyway."

"Okay." Tony grins at him. "It's the drinks that did it, huh?"

Steve feels an answering smile begin to grow. "I can't get drunk."

"Oh, no shit!" Tony exclaims, leading him back to say hellos and farewells. "You poor soul."

Steve laughs. He guesses there are worse things.

END


End file.
